Self-care
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For the past year or so, I have not been feelling like who I used to be,
And no matter how hard I tried, I was not okay when I just tried to be me.
I kept doubting myself, and I became someone that I did not recognize,
For the longest time I kept blaming myself, trying to figure out what was wrong with me.
Why was I never goo enough for anyone? Was there something wrong with me that I wasn't able to see?
A day out of 366
Stars spun around and spanned
My words spiced with salts of a hysterics
The loneliness of which is damned
But joy I keep, is even
And when I sip, the life goes on
I’m a little too much of the same thing
I run on the railway lines
That roll as straight and narrow
As the razor-sharp wire I
Am constantly using as a tightrope
It begins as a small seed
Lodged in your ear
Blocking all sound
Soon, the roots spread
Little brown threads reach down into the canal
No One’s Coming
I wish that time would stop again.
Lying still in perfect darkness, bundled up in illness and discomfort.
counting knots in the wood slats-
the ones i can feel my nonexistent breath bounce off against
the ones holding up the musty mattress that does not get granted a body for most of the year
silent cabin
for so long you've been sinking
belly full of stones
i press my lips to yours
with the notion
that breathing outward might send you upward
but somehow
accidentally
i breathe in
Exhalation is the flow,
Of my body, my mind, and my soul,
Of the respiratory current out,
Into the air about.
The deep breathes I take,
Will help calm the mistakes,
That I've only made in my mind.
It would be outrageous for me to say anything has shaped me this year more intensely
Than my own grand failures caused by my need for outside approval.
A year ago, I wouldn’t have been willing to admit that.
there are peopleputting themselves in a box,afraid to step on anyone's toes,never seeing that those,same people have their own feetresting low upon the box,pushing them out to sea. So when i open my mouth,to speak my free,they turn around, hatefu
Sometimes, she doesn't get out of bed.
It seems so difficult.
The color of sadness is so deep.
But she must rise.
Her subjects need attention.
Is it not strange.
That moment, where words from my mind
Flow through my hand and into my pen
That moment, when all of the thoughts
Become organized, and no longer scream
Are you listening?! Can you hear me...
Do you even care?
